


All That Belongs to Us is Time

by shadeshifter



Series: Writers Block [6]
Category: Highlander: The Series, Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, F/M, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Timey-Wimey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-07 18:57:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19475299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadeshifter/pseuds/shadeshifter
Summary: Garcia Flynn first meets Adam Pierson in 1994. Methos first sees Flynn in 1754. As a time traveler and an Immortal, neither lives their relationship in order.





	All That Belongs to Us is Time

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently I'm going to pair Methos with any character Goran Višnjić plays from now on. I also had to create two very confusing timelines for this. Flynn's chronological timeline which jumps all over the place and Methos' straight one. They were nowhere near similar. My brain hurts but I hope this makes sense.
> 
> Jumping between fics seems to be working for me at the moment, so that's what I'm going to stick with and we'll see how long I can keep this up.

“ _All that really belongs to us is time; even he who has nothing else has that.” Baltasar Gracian_

...

Garcia Flynn ran a hand through his hair as he tried to puzzle out the translation for the third time. He knew majoring in languages was a mistake. He probably should have done engineering like his father had wanted. Or maybe picked up more than a minor in mathematics because it made his mother happy. Mathematics was basically it's own language anyway, even if he had less of an interest in it than he did Classical and Romance languages.

A bang distracted him from his work and he looked up to glare at the man on the other side of the desk who'd dropped a large pile of books on the table. The man gave him a sheepish smile and put his bag down much more softly. His baggy sweater hid what was clearly a lithe physique from the way his jeans seemed to be painted on.

"Sorry about that," he said in a whisper and Flynn simply nodded and ducked his head down to continue his own work.

All he heard for the next while was the steady scratch of pencil on paper as the other man worked steadily on whatever his project was while Flynn grew more and more frustrated. Finally he tossed his pencil down and stretched, trying to relieve the aches in his back and shoulders. When he lowered his arms it was to see the other man watched him, pencil tapping absently against his bottom lip.

"Struggling a bit?" the man asked, shifting forward onto his elbows as the focus he'd been dedicating to his texts was turned to Flynn. Flynn is left feeling like butterfly, pinned and exposed, under that piercing look.

"I'll get there," Flynn said, wanting out from his gaze. The other man hmmed noncommittally, but didn't turn back to his work. "Can I help you with something?"

"No, no thanks," the man said, not even a little bit flustered at Flynn's admittedly sharp tone or pointed look.

“My name’s Flynn,” he said after a moment when it was clear the other man wasn't going to go away and his mother had raised him to be polite. He then added, “Well, Garcia Flynn, but everyone calls me Flynn.”

“Adam Pierson, professional historian and translator, at your service,” the man said with a flourish and a short bow in his seat.

"You're not a student?" Flynn asked, because he'd just assumed the other man was. He looked a few years older than Flynn, perhaps a post graduate student given the sorts of books he was looking at, but still a student. "What are you doing here then?"

"They had some histories here that might be useful for the project I'm working on," Adam said by way of explanation but Flynn didn't miss that he actually revealed almost nothing about his work.

"Oh?" Flynn asked, curious in spite of himself. Although he could admit to himself, it might just have been the opportunity to procrastinate his translation.

"I'm looking into common legends in Mesopotamia and the Indian subcontinent," Adam told him, gesturing to the books he had arrayed around him. From what Flynn could see, large portions of the texts had photographs or replications of the original artifacts. "My Sanskrit is a little rusty," he admitted. "But I seem to remember most of my Sumerian."

"That's good," Flynn said, floundering for something to say to this man who seemed to know so much more than him that he couldn't understand what he wanted from their encounter.

"What are you working on then?" Adam asked, head cocked to one side like he was really interested and Flynn couldn't understand why. The man was reading texts in Sumerian like it was his own language and whatever else he said about his Sanskrit, he didn't seem to be struggling all that much, while Flynn was struggling through Renaissance and Baroque Italian literature.

"Giambattista Marino."

"Oh, I remember him," Adam said, with a far away look. "He was a bit overwrought, but really quite clever."

"You've studied him?"

Adam shrugged, a casual lift of his shoulder, though how anyone was supposed to be able to tell in that ridiculous sweater, Flynn didn't know.

"I've studied a little bit of everything," he said, smiling with a shared joke that Flynn felt like he was missing. It didn't seem to concern Adam overly much when Flynn didn't join in the amusement. "So what are stuck on?"

"I have to translate it and I can't get more than a few lines in," Flynn admitted, because he had his pride, but he was also a sophomore student who wasn't above taking advantage of expertise when it was offered.

“As Robert Frost once said, poetry is what gets lost in translation,” he said, eyes twinkling with humour.

“I don’t think my professor will accept that answer,” Flynn said with a wry smile, drawn in despite himself.

“Well, we can’t very well have that,” he said, holding out his hand for Flynn’s notepad. After a moment of hesitation, Flynn handed it over.

He watched with anxious anticipation as the other man slowly read over what he'd done, turning back to the beginning several times, until Flynn wanted to grab his notepad away. It was bad enough he knew his professor would need to see his pathetic offering, but this man had made translation his life's work. Somehow it was different.

Adam began to scribble away in the margins of Flynn's notepad, pausing every now and then to consider something before continuing, although from this angle he couldn't see precisely what had been written. Finally Adam stopped, looked everything over once more and handed the notepad back. Flynn grabbed it a little too quickly, pulling it close, and looking down at the elegant, sloping words that had been written next to his messy scrawl.

"Your problem isn't translation so much as it is context," Adam offered. "I've put down several sources that might be helpful. Just remember it's poetry; most often something is lost in a literal translation."

"Thanks, I owe you one,” Flynn said, impossibly grateful that he could finally complete his assignment.

“How about a drink?”

Flynn could feel a blush creeping up his neck and he pulled his jacket closer around him, folding his arms, as he willed it away. He didn't need to get beaten for being caught taking too much of an interest in the guy.

“Sure,” he said, ducking his head before he looked up into Adam’s amused gaze.

“I’ve got some beer back at my place,” Adam said, smile turning sly as he raised an eyebrow in question.

Flynn swallowed hard, realising he hadn't been all that subtle about his interest, but a little relieved and more than a little intrigued now that he knew it was returned. He wondered if he was really going to go home with a man who was effectively a stranger. But Adam was funny, intelligent and charming and Flynn wasn’t ready to let him drift out of his life just yet.

“Sounds like a plan,” he said.

...

As Flynn stared at the two graves, his grief a physical ache that never seemed to go away, and drained him of the will or energy to do anything but mourn them. He didn't know how to live a life without them, how to move on. All he'd been doing was living in the moment when he came home to see police lights on his street and officers in his home.

It him a long while to realise there was another presence beside him, that someone had interrupted his peace. He turned, ready tell the other person off for the invasion before he stopped short.

"Flynn," Adam said, hands in his pockets and shoulders hunched. He looked almost exactly the same, like time had barely touched him, although he’d swapped out the baggy sweater for a black suit. It looked good on him, but then Flynn couldn't imagine there was a lot that didn't.

"Adam."

"I heard what happened," Adam said, taking a small step forward before stopping. Flynn wasn't sure he wouldn't have hit him if he had. He didn't know what he was feeling, never really had when it came to Adam. It was like being in a fight; exciting and breathless and racing heart, but also irritation and frustration and the feeling that no matter how well he thought he was doing he couldn't shake the feeling he was losing.

“You disappear after a week, without a word, without any way to contact you, and then you show up twenty years later at my wife and daughter’s funeral.”

“I had to go back to England,” Adam told him with a shrug, but his gaze on Flynn was a heavy, weighted pressure. “I can’t explain everything, not yet, but you’ll know it all soon enough.”

“Why are you here? What do you want from me?” Flynn demanded, striding forward and closing the gap between them. “Why here? Now?”

Adam gently cupped Flynn’s face in his hands and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.

“I’m so very sorry for your loss,” he said sincerely with none of the mischief and humour Flynn remembered from their previous encounter. He pulled away enough to look at him and Flynn suddenly found his throat burning and his eyes welling up. He fisted Adam’s jacket, pulling him close and buried his face in the man’s neck, muffling a sob. He clung to him as his world fell out from beneath him. His wife and daughter were gone and there was nothing he could do to change that.

"Why are you here?" Flynn asked some time later without raising his forehead from Adam's shoulder. His hands were sore but he couldn't bring himself to give up his grip on the other man.

"Because you needed someone."

It sounded so simple, so clear. Nothing had been simple or clear since the day they'd been taken from him.

"Why you?"

"Because I'll always be here."

Flynn didn't have the energy to argue, couldn't find it in himself to tell Adam he hadn't been there for almost 20 years. He sighed when Adam's hand moved to stroke his hair and told himself he didn't have anywhere to be just yet.


End file.
